The Maudlin Mulder Shuffle
by Alicia K
Summary: Mulder's pity party.


Title: The Maudlin Mulder Shuffle  
  
Author: Alicia K.  
  
Summary: Mulder's pity party.  
  
Rating: PG-13, but only because that Mulder has   
quite the mouth on him.  
  
Category: A of the H kind.  
  
Archive: Spookies okay. Anywhere else, please   
ask. I'm easy. (Er, don't let that get out!)  
  
Spoilers: A wee one for "all things," and a   
bunch of spoilers for episodes from deep in the   
XF vault.  
  
Author's Note: Thanks to Livia, cofax, M.   
Sebasky and Jess for rapid response to beta   
whining. Yes, Virginia, this one's for you.  
  
Feedback will keep me from wallowing:   
spartcus1@msn.com  
  
XXX  
  
Everything is about me. Me me me!  
  
Well, it is after six shots of tequila. The   
empty glasses are lined up neatly on the bar in   
front of me, sticky little soldiers.  
  
Did I mention that I'm in a bar? I've been   
here for a while, actually. This isn't a place   
I usually frequent, but I was on this side of   
town, on this night of all nights, after Scully   
said this thing, of all things.  
  
"Mulder," she said, "I think it would do us   
some good to spend some time apart."  
  
Well no, that's not exactly what she said. What   
she said was "Get the hell out of my face,   
Mulder, you're driving me crazy! And don't you   
dare try calling me this weekend." Her words   
were followed by the slam of the office door,   
which proved to be quite an effective   
punctuation mark.  
  
See, Scully and I are lovers now. Have been   
for a few weeks, actually. Okay, so we only   
slept together after her big Buddhist   
revelation, but it was pretty damn good. That   
was our only time. So far.  
  
But we're trying to be like a normal couple,   
doing normal couple things like having dinner   
and hanging out, watching TV. You could argue   
that our pre-sex life was fairly similar, but   
now we do it much more often.   
  
Apparently TOO often for certain people, who   
shall remain nameless. SCULLY.  
  
Space. She wants space. I can give her space.   
She'll get so much damn space from me, she'll   
think she's on fucking Neptune.  
  
So here I am at this mystery bar, in some hotel   
on the definite opposite side of town from   
Georgetown, because she wants space.  
  
I'm in the bar of some swanky hotel, the kind   
that hosts dignitaries and businessmen whose   
wallets are busting out all over. Apparently   
the Snooty-ville Choo Choo hasn't arrived yet:   
it's only me and two other losers occupying the   
premises. The three of us look like we all got   
letters today that say, "Dear Baby - Welcome to   
Dumpsville. Population: You."  
  
I look that way a lot.  
  
Hell, I can't help it. My lips are big, my   
nose is big, my eyes are big and dark -- I've   
practically got puppy dog written all over me.   
Not like it's ever gotten me anywhere. And NO,   
I've never practiced a hangdog look in the   
mirror at home.  
  
I call the bartender over and order yet another   
shot, with the added instruction to "make this   
one sing!" Todd (I gleaned this bit of info   
after the third shot) gives me a very odd look,   
but obeys.  
  
Imagine my surprise when I down the tequila and   
am staring at the bottom of the shot glass,   
when I hear music.  
  
Goddamn, he DID make it sing! Todd is magic,   
the reincarnation of Doug Henning!  
  
But no, it's only the tinklings of a piano. I   
crane my head toward the back corner, where I   
see a man in a tuxedo sitting at a grand piano.   
It's shiny. When I'm this plastered, I'm like   
a big, goofy magpie, drawn to pretty things   
that catch my eye.  
  
When Scully said she was quitting a few summers   
back, I went to a bar and started yakking at   
the bartender solely because her earrings were   
shiny. I gave her the Cliffs' Notes of my   
life, and she cut off my liquor supply, all   
because of shiny.   
  
I'm kind of dumb that way.  
  
I only went into the bar that night to brood,   
to gaze at my navel and ponder the possibility   
of a Scully-less life.   
  
Well, that and to down copious amounts of   
tequila.  
  
So here I am, downing copious amounts of   
tequila and pondering a Scully-less weekend.   
At least this time there's real music, not just   
the tinny strains of punk-ass bands covering   
old Doors tunes. Things like that make me want   
to weep. Someone told me last week that   
Britney Spears covered "Satisfaction" on her   
new CD, and I almost slit my wrists.  
  
Other things tend to upset me, too. Lots of   
other things. I even have a list I pull out   
whenever I want to wallow.  
  
As I open Mulder's List of Pity in my head like   
a folded cocktail napkin, a smarmy singing   
sound reaches my ears.  
  
Like stupid insects drawn to the buzzing blue   
light of death, the other two losers pick up   
their drinks and move to sit closer to the   
loosely-termed musician. So much for what I   
thought would be real music.  
  
The list is spread out in my mind, all my   
trials laid out before me in convenient outline   
form. Impressive, I know, but remember - I   
have a really good memory. Even in my   
heightened state of inebriation, Todd could   
show me his little black book, and I could   
parrot back every number twenty minutes later.  
  
So anyway, the list. This is what it looks   
like, in its most basic form:  
  
I.Guilt  
II.Self Pity  
III.People Who Hate Me  
  
See? I told you it was all about me.  
  
It's difficult to concentrate with Mr. Lounge   
Lizard singing "Seasons of Love" over in the   
corner, but I meticulously lay out each item   
under the appropriate heading.  
  
Let's start at the very beginning. It is, I've   
been told, a very good place to start.  
  
Guilt is the heaviest of the categories. Or at   
least the fullest.   
  
There's your basic family guilt, for shutting   
out my mother when she needed me most. I was a   
teenager, what was I supposed to do? Teenagers   
don't talk to their mothers. It's on page   
forty-seven of the Teenagers Handbook.  
  
Samantha. There's a name so loaded, it should   
be supported by an association with Charlton   
Heston at the helm. But we're just going to   
zip by that one for the time being, seeing as   
how I pulled that whole harmonic convergence   
crap with the "I'm free" and all, after I saw   
her in the starlight.  
  
Starlight. Right. Okay, moving on.  
  
Then there's the Scully guilt. If you have an   
hour or five we could really get into this, but   
I have this awful feeling that in less time   
than that, the bar will be full of overdressed   
patrons who swish mouthfuls of wine around   
their tastebuds and talk about politics, their   
careful voices never rising above a   
conversational murmur. Not an especially good   
wallowing atmosphere.  
  
But I digress. See, the thing is, Scully   
doesn't want me to feel guilty about all of   
that - her abduction, her eggs, her cancer, her   
sister, and on and on, and so forth and so   
forth. She says that she's made her own   
decisions, that she's chosen to stay with me,   
that it's not my fault.  
  
All of which makes me feel guilty AGAIN, this   
time for feeling guilty in the first place. So   
usually I try to stick with simply feeling   
guilty for the first reason, because then I   
don't have to worry about feeling guilty for   
the second.  
  
Bobo the Singing Monkey has moved on to Stevie   
Wonder, complete with a hi-larious imitation of   
a blind pianist. The two schmucks paying   
attention are clapping and laughing,   
encouraging him.  
  
I suddenly wish I were a lawyer with the ACLU -   
I'd sue him on behalf of blind people   
everywhere, and then have Stevie Wonder and Ray   
Charles kick his ass five ways from Sunday.  
  
But no, I'm an FBI agent, a G-Man who risks his   
life in the oddest ways, chasing down UFOs and   
Reticulans from Planet Zoomba, and generally   
fucking up everyone else's lives as well as his   
own.  
  
Did I mention I was in a self-pitying mood   
tonight? Ah, good. Then let's move on to the   
next category: Self Pity, appropriately enough.  
  
You might wonder what the hell I have to feel   
so pitiful about. I'm employed, I'm reasonably   
attractive - once you get past my stupid nose -   
and I have a fantastic partner.  
  
But when it all comes down to it, I'm a big   
loner. A lone wolf, you might say, or a lone   
fox, if you're feeling particularly witty.   
Yeah, well ha ha, asshole.  
  
My family is gone. I think there's the odd   
aunt and uncle floating around out there   
somewhere, but this branch of Mulders has been   
removed for a long time, probably not long   
after dear old Dad stuck his finger in the   
frosting of the great big alien cake.  
  
I have no life. Do you know what I do when I'm   
not chasing aliens down the New Mexico highway   
system, or when I'm not having a pity party?  
  
Let's see - there are a few things that I do to   
pass the time. I like to bounce a basketball   
against the floor and/or walls, much to the   
endless amusement of my neighbors. I used to   
watch a lot of porn, but had to stop when the   
naked women on the screen started morphing into   
Scully. I like to fantasize about Scully,   
don't get me wrong, but I liked to hear MY name   
come out of that mouth, not Ron Jeremy's.  
  
The other thing I like to do is NOT, surprise   
surprise, fantasize about my partner. Au   
contraire - I prefer to moon over her. It is a   
lovely thing to lie on my couch, stare up at   
the ceiling or into my fish tank and think   
about Scully.  
  
Granted, I haven't needed to do that since we'd   
started seeing more of each other (all of each   
other, har har), but since this is the natural   
progression of my wallowing, I have to go with   
it.  
  
I order another shot from Todd, who gives me   
another dubious look. He probably doesn't care   
how drunk I am, as long as I'm not trying to   
talk to him.  
  
The liquor decides to play with my brain, and   
the image of a nude Scully bobbling in my brain   
doubles. She's cloned herself! What a great   
trick! What a fabulous woman! How did I ever   
get so lucky? Not only was she brought into my   
life, but she wanted to have sex with me, too!  
  
I smile proudly, thinking of my sexual prowess,   
when my little mental naked Scully turns into   
my little mental angry Scully, who yells at me   
and slams the door.  
  
So much for that. Where was I, anyway? Pity   
still? Okay.   
  
I have failed Scully so many times. If I had a   
dollar for every breed of evil (human or   
otherwise) that tried to harm her, I'd have .   
well, enough to make a dent in my bar tab,   
anyway.  
  
This is where the subcategories of my formal   
outline come into play. Sometimes I list them   
in chronological order, sometimes alphabetical.   
Duane Barry, Chaco Chicken people, Modell,   
Pfaster, Tooms. That's just for starters. For   
each one I shake my head, thinking of the   
trouble I've gotten her into over the years.  
  
I recognize the opening plinkety-plink notes of   
the theme song from that damned "Chorus Line"   
show that a date dragged me to once, years ago.   
I would bet no cute little blonde would be   
coming out to sing that "Tits and Ass" song   
this time, though.  
  
When I turn to glare at the pianist, I am   
greeted by a most peculiar sight - a chorus   
line of evil predators, all wearing white pants   
with gold sequinned vests and top hats.  
  
They start to do a grand kick line, and I again   
have to question the amount of alcohol I've   
consumed tonight.   
  
They are the Rockettes, Vegas showgirls, and a   
Busby Berkeley movie all in one. They kick,   
they spin (hey, who knew that Tooms was such a   
good dancer?), they smile million-dollar   
smiles. And they are singing.  
  
Just as I'm about to bury my head in my hands   
and weep at the horror of it all, I notice the   
dancer on the end - the one who can't quite   
keep in step with Modell and Pfaster.  
  
I recognize the half-burned tatoo on his arm.   
It's Jerse, comma, Ed. As I stare at him, I   
decide that he doesn't really belong under   
Guilt or Self Pity. I think it's time to   
create a fourth category: Jealousy and   
Confusion.  
  
Jerse, that fucker who can't even remember the   
words, could be joined by Sheriff Hartwell. I   
get a little twinge of something when I think   
of him, but no, he doesn't really count. He   
was only interested in sucking Scully's blood   
and untying her shoes.   
  
The chorus line exits stage right, and I decide   
that one name isn't enough to warrant its own   
category. Mrs. Cavanaugh told us in fourth   
grade that if you only have one thing to put   
under category C, then there shouldn't be   
category C.  
  
Ah, but if I take Mr. Jerse and rearrange him   
(and I'd like to rearrange him, starting with   
his testicles), we might have a category called   
. . . oh, how about Fucking Pain, Rage and   
Anger?  
  
Mr. Jerse could keep company with Cancerman and   
Krycek. This category could also be called   
People I Hate, which is a nice counterpart to   
my final category, People Who Hate Me.  
  
This is the easy part of the list -- Bill   
Scully, half the FBI, Skinner too, probably.   
Kersh, definitely, but he's out of my hair now,   
so it doesn't matter. Hell, I know the FBI   
hates me - why would they have stuck me in the   
friggin' basement?   
  
"Spooky," I snort, and Todd comes over to me.  
  
"Sir, why don't I call you a cab?" he asks,   
sounding a little nervous.   
  
I look around and see that the hotel's elite   
have come to roost. I heave a sigh and say,   
"Can I just request a song first? Then I'll   
leave, I promise."  
  
Todd gives me a nod and hurries over to the   
other end of the bar, far, far away from me.  
  
I get to my feet, testing out my brand new   
drunk legs. I think perhaps there was an error   
on the production line, because I find myself   
grabbing onto the edge of a bar stool when my   
legs buckle beneath me.  
  
Unfortunately, it's a swivel bar stool, and I   
next find myself on the floor.  
  
"Sir!"   
  
Oh good. Todd will help me back up. Maybe   
he'll help me write a letter of complaint to   
the leg factory, too. But no, he's only   
glaring at me, his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
"No, no. Don't get up." I wave a hand at him   
and toss my wallet in his general direction.   
"Tob and cad, Tad." No, wait. "Tab. Cab.   
Todd," I correct, carefully getting to my feet.  
  
Now there is a group of people looking at me as   
if I were a very distasteful insect on the   
bottom of their Bruno Magli shoes.  
  
"Piano!" I yell sloppily. Everyone around me   
takes a distinct step back, and I feel like   
Moses parting the Red Sea. "Hey!"  
  
I stumble over to the back corner of the room,   
where the guy is now playing a wholly   
unnecessary version of that song from that   
stupid musical about cats.  
  
"Request!"  
  
Judging by the way his fingers jerk away from   
the keyboard, I realize that I must be speaking   
at a very high volume.  
  
"Sir?" he says meekly, as if he fears for his   
life. I wonder if he's thinking, "I KNEW I   
shouldn't have played that song from that   
stupid musical about cats!"  
  
I lean my upper body with relief on the black,   
shiny surface of the piano and smile my most   
charming smile. "I have a request, can I make   
a request?" I try to lower my voice, but   
something in his expression tells me that I'm   
still shouting.  
  
He nods and clears his throat. "Uh . . . of   
course, Sir. What would you like to hear?"  
  
I lean even closer, the fingers of my right   
hand practically tickling the ivories. "Do you   
know that song? That one song?"  
  
He recoils from my evidently heinous tequila   
breath. "Can you be more," he clears his   
throat, "specific, Sir?"  
  
"You know!" I smack my hand on the piano.   
Dammit, everyone knows that song! "That song   
about the worms!"  
  
I feel hands grab at my shoulders and arms.   
Oops, looks like I'm being asked to leave the   
premises. This may be my last chance to hear   
the one and only song that speaks to me at this   
stage of my inebriated wallowing.  
  
As Todd et al are forcefully leading me toward   
the exit, I open my mouth and start to sing:  
  
"Nobody likes me! Everybody hates me! I'm   
going out to eat worms! Big fat slimy worms!   
Little greasy grimy worms! My how do they   
squirm!"  
  
Oddly enough, I do not hear thunderous applause   
as I am unceremoniously thrown into the back of   
a waiting taxi. Something thunks me on the   
head just before the door slams, and I look   
down with bleary eyes to see my wallet.  
  
The cab driver turns to smirk at me. "Where   
to, sailor?" And then he laughs, like he's   
just told the funniest joke to ever hit the   
universe.  
  
Instead of answering, I lean over and vomit   
onto the floor. Then I give him Scully's   
address.  
  
He peels away from the curb, cursing loudly. I   
don't know what he's so upset about - it's not   
like the floor was very clean to begin with.  
  
With a groan, I gingerly lay down across the   
back seat. I know Scully doesn't want to see   
me or even talk to me this weekend, but I just   
need to see her right now.  
  
I need her to see me in my sorry-ass state, all   
drunk and ridiculous and pitiful as all get-  
out.  
  
I hope she feels guilty.  
  
**End**  
  
Feedback lovingly embraced at:   
spartcus1@msn.com  
  
http://luperkal.simplenet.com/AliciaK/Enter.html  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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